Mariée en Fuite
by intagliosfera
Summary: The title means Runaway Bride. This story is registered with the WGAw. COMPLETE. Thank you for reading. Your comments are gratefully accepted.
1. Chapter 1

Mariée en Fuite Chapter 1

Christine's feet hurt. Her new kidskin shoes had been bought ready-made, rather than to order. She had fled the burning Opera Populaire barefoot. The cuts on her feet had not completely healed.

In fact, everything Christine wore was new. From her dazzling hat, complete with emu feather, to her stylish dress, to the whalebone corset that laced her to a dizzying twenty- inch waist, everything was spanking new. Itchy. Unfamiliar. Christine was grateful to see that Mme. Giry still served the same Earl Grey tea with the little blue cornflowers. Some things should not change.

Mme. Giry had warmly welcomed Christine Daae into her new flat. Last night at the wedding rehearsal, Christine had been withdrawn and pensive. The wedding was to take place in two days' time. _Tout Paris_ would surely attend, if only to watch the spectacle of a disgraced opera singer finally landing her big fish. In the absence of a father to walk her down the aisle, Christine had implored Mme. Giry to do the honors

"Oh, Madame, I have missed you so much!" Christine returned Mme. Giry's embrace with a more fervent one of her own. Mme. Giry examined the girl closely. "You look thin. Do the Chagnys not feed you?"

"No, the Chagnys are very kind," Christine replied listlessly.

Mme. Giry scowled as she detected Christine's wrist bones protruding from her sleeves. But it was normal for a bride-to-be to lose weight...

"So, my child, is everything prepared?" Mme. Giry inquired as she poured Christine a cup of tea with two spoons of sugar, just the way she liked it.

"I suppose it is. His people are handling all the details. All I have to do is show up." Christine sipped the brew gratefully, so happy to have something familiar.

Mme. Giry shifted in her chair. Her eyes darted to the closed door between the sitting room and her bedroom. 'Upright' and 'reserved' were two of the best ways to describe the ballet mistress, but Mme. Giry felt compelled to broach a new subject with Christine.

"My dear, as you have no mother to guide you, I feel it is my duty…Do you know what will be expected of you? As a bride?" Mme. Giry blurted out.

"I shall wear Raoul's ring and be his wife—oohh!" Christine blushed crimson to her hairline. "You mean—"

"Yes. The physical part of marriage. Do you know what will occur?" Mme. Giry gave Christine one of her patented penetrating stares.

A floorboard in the bedroom gave a heavy creak.

"I think I do. I must lie down…and my husband must…do what he will do."

"You don't know anything, do you?" The young woman shook her head in misery. For the next ten minutes, Mme. Giry slowly went over the facts of life with Christine, leaving nothing unmentioned. She would be nude. There might be pain and blood. He would probably fall asleep on top of her. But it was her duty as a married woman, and there would be children as reward and consolation.

As Mme. Giry concluded the lecture, she was dismayed to see Christine's eyes shining with tears.

"Now, now, _mignon_, it isn't as bad as all that. There is also desire. When Raoul kisses you, don't you wish him to keep doing so?"

"It's nice, but it feels so messy. Not like when…" Christine's voice trailed away, lost in reverie.

"When?" Mme. Giry's eyes bored into the girl's, intent on getting a truthful answer.

"When I kissed him. My angel."

CREAK! Went the floorboard again.

"Pay no attention, this house is always settling. What are you going to do, Christine? Can you marry a man you do not desire with all your heart?"

Christine got up from the little sofa and began to pace around the rented room. "I have no choice! My name has been ruined. Our home is gone. Where else can I go?" Christine grabbed the ridiculous hat from her head. " I mean, look at this! All of my clothes are gone, yours and Meg's too! We have nothing. When I am Raoul's wife, I can pay for this flat—you will be homeless if I don't! Isn't that worth being decked out like a fashion doll?" A wave of dizziness came over Christine and she clutched at the back of Mme. Giry's chair. The older woman sprang up to steady her.

"Sit down, _petite_, you are not well." Christine shook off the ballet mistress' helping hand. "I must be strong now. Please forgive me, I am late for the final fitting of my wedding gown." Christine fumbled on the sofa for her new lizard-skin reticule, and tottered toward the front door. "Damn these heels," she muttered under her breath softly.

Mme. Giry gave Christine a gentle embrace at the door. Outside, the luxurious de Chagny carriage with its matched bay geldings waited, footmen at the ready. Christine pecked Mme. Giry's cheek in gratitude. "I will see you on my wedding day?"

"Yes, my dear. One thing more. You must not lace your corset so tightly-it will ruin your breathing and destroy that heavenly voice."

True, deep sorrow washed over Christine's lovely visage. "It doesn't matter, Madame. I don't think that Raoul will ever let me sing again." And with that, she firmly jammed her hat back on her head and closed the door.

Mme. Giry exhaled a heavy sigh. To be so young and in such despair…She heard the door to her tiny bedroom squeak open, but did not bother to turn around.

"She's gone?' a husky voice whispered.

"Quite gone." A tall shadow loomed over the slender woman. Mme. Giry made a gesture toward the sofa. "There's tea in the pot if you want some."

"I think I need something stronger than tea, Antoinette."

"I think you will need your wits about you if you want to help this poor girl, Erik." Mme. Giry turned to look the Phantom of the Opera straight in the eye.

She found a shaken, desperately unhappy man before her. This man was disheveled, unwashed and hungry, with an anguish in his eyes that matched Christine's. Mme. Giry shook her head and clucked softly. How far, how far to fall, and for what?

Erik gave a strangled cry of frustration. "She is selling herself for security, not for love. I will go right into that church and seize her. I will carry her away like Lochinvar--"

"You mean like the tenor in a cheap opera. Erik, didn't you hear the girl? She has no choices. You took away her choices." With that, the Phantom collapsed on the sofa and hung his head in his hands. His shoulders trembled and his breathing became ragged.

"What shall I do, Antoinette? I can't…I'm lost…please." Erik raised his eyes to his oldest friend. His savior of old, always to be trusted, if not always heeded.

"You are a man, Erik. Start acting like one. Create a new option for this girl if you love her. Let her be finally free to make a choice." Mme. Giry's eyes were like an eagle's honing in on the prey.

"Even if she doesn't choose to be with me?" Erik drew in his breath. He was poised upon the knife-edge of despair, at a crossroads of his own making. "Yes," he mused, "I was the one who stole away my angel's future. I must restore it to her to do as she sees fit."

Mme. Giry allowed her ramrod posture to relax. Now, a plan must be formulated. There was much to do and not much time. The gaslight lamps burned long into the night. Dawn found two people exhausted, but full of hope.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 

Christine pulled back the bedroom curtains on this, her wedding morning, to see…nothing. A heavy fog had rolled in off the Seine during the night. But it was unusual for the fog to persist once the April sun peeked over the horizon.

A casual stroller in the 16th Arondissment would have seen the petite girl standing at the ornate window, its cast-iron scrollwork carefully barring the world away. The Maison de Chagny was a particularly imposing, if somewhat unwelcoming structure, its stolid sandstone façade and high gates communicating to the great unwashed that they were indeed not wanted.

Christine pulled her wrapper around her waist when she heard her maid's timid knock at the door. The rabbity girl tiptoed in with a breakfast tray. Christine had no intention of breaking her fast with the rest of the de Chagny family. Not this morning. Not after last night. Christine raised the café au lait to her lips, reliving the previous evening.

Raoul's parents seemed determined to point out the yawning chasm between her upbringing and Raoul's. What better way than a formal dinner party? When Raoul led Christine in to supper, a forest of silverware and goblets awaited her. As Raoul deftly pushed in her chair, Christine was dismayed to see five spoons, five forks, four knives and four drinking vessels. Not for the table—for her!

The entire menu was constructed from the most awkward foodstuffs known to humanity. Artichokes. Lobsters in the shell. Ortolans! Tiny little birds served up whole—how in the world does a person eat such a thing? And the coup de grace—for dessert, a whole tangerine served with a knife and fork. "You surely wouldn't pick it up with your hands, would you?" Madame la Comtesse de Chagny, Raoul's adored mother, purred at Christine.

Raoul ended up cutting the fruit for her and arranging it on her plate as though she was a child. It was humiliating. She knew nothing about wine, and almost sipped the water from the finger bowl, stopped in the nick of time by Raoul's hasty kick under the table.

"I can hardly wait for Christmas," Christine snorted to herself as she attacked her breakfast. She began to dip a slice of her toast into her coffee, when she stopped—remembering how boorish and lower class such a thing was. Then, she went ahead and dipped it. "Who knows, this may be the last chance I get," she thought rebelliously.

While Christine was enduring the dinner from hell, Erik was riding Cesar back from the Carmelite Sisters of Misercordia, a convent four hours from Paris. Even though there was a three-quarter moon, Erik dismounted and led Cesar where the road grew uneven. The horse had been a good friend for many years, and Erik did not wish to lame him

Mme. Giry had sent him that morning with a letter of introduction to the Mother Superior, Sister Therese. Sister Therese had been a ballet dancer with Mme. Giry, but gave it all up thirty years ago. Some said it was a holy vocation that led her to her vows; some said it was for love.

The gentle prioress did not know what to make of the masked man before her.

"How can I be of help to you, my son?" she softly inquired. The man was plainly distraught, for he would look at the little nun, then look away and mutter under his breath. Finally, the man inhaled sharply, and began.

"I have come here to ask for sanctuary."

"What have you done?" Sister Therese's heart started to race. Were the authorities after this dashing fellow, so handsome in his riding coat and shiny boots? Did he hide his face to conceal his criminal past?

This was the most excitement Sister Therese had experienced since leaving the ballet.

"It is not for me, although I have committed many sins and there is a price on my head." Sister Therese gasped. "Please continue, young man."

"I ask your protection for a young woman. A blameless young woman who may need you to shelter her while she begins life anew." Erik removed one of his riding gloves and slapped it against his left hand's palm rhythmically.

"She lost her home—she lost everything in the recent Opera fire. She thinks that she is alone." Slap. "And friendless." Slap.

Sister Therese began to understand. "You love this young woman, don't you, my child?"

The glove stopped moving. "Think, Sister of that broken carpenter whose bride you are. Multiply the love you bear him by ten, and then ten more. That is a fraction of the love I have for this girl."

Sister Therese's mouth drew round in an "o". This man could be dangerous. Why in the world had Antoinette Giry sent him to her peaceful cloister? "My son, you speak in extremes. How can the Carmelite Sisters help this unhappy lady?"

Erik's eyes began to glow with an aquamarine flame. "She is about to make a terrible decision. If she comes here, it will be to have the time and the means to decide what she will do with her young life." He looked into the mother superior's hooded eyes. "Go on, my son." she nodded.

"I intend to settle a large sum of money upon her, so that her choices may be made from her heart and not desperation." Erik's voice warmed as he explained his plan. It was so musical! Sister Therese couldn't help but become caught in the web of words.

"If you can find it in your hearts to shelter my dear Christine, and obscure her from all who may seek her, I am sure that she will again choose to use the divine gift of song. It is a gift that your God gave her. A gift that I, her tutor, helped to refine…"

At this, Erik's voice broke, and a sob rose in his throat. Sister Therese gently took the masked man's immense, yet finely formed, hand into her own delicate one. She could feel him shaking.

"Dear sir, this is indeed a place of refuge. If this young woman comes here willingly, we will conceal her until she is ready to rejoin the world."

Christine let out an involuntary groan as the maids draped her wedding gown over her head. The dress was made of twenty yards of the finest Alençon lace, embroidered with thousands of seed pearls and golden thread, on a base of crystal white silk Duppioni. The gown was beautiful. It was regal.

It weighed about as much as Christine did. How was she going to walk down the aisle in this thing? The gown had, of course, been worn by Raoul's mother, a statuesque Norman lady if there ever was one, and besides, there had been no time to have a new one made.

Raoul had insisted that they marry as soon as the Cathedral St. Chappelle was available. He had become obdurate on the subject, allowing no dissent. Even Christine's considerable reservations had been swept away in the face of Raoul's determination that they should be wed, in style, and at once.

So there was no help for it. As Christine looked at her reflection in the full-length silver gilt mirror, she had to admit that it was a beautiful dress. An exquisite fingertip veil, also of the finest lace, was anchored by the de Chagny diamond tiara. And yet, the face that peered out from this queenly raiment was…sad? Overwhelmed? Trapped?

A sharp knock at the door dispelled all of Christine's errant thoughts. With difficulty, Christine waded over and opened the door a crack.

"How is my beautiful bride this morning?" a sleek voice proudly whispered. Christine jumped back and caught one foot in her train. "You can't see me, Raoul! It's bad luck." Raoul chuckled a little, but stayed behind the door. "The only bad luck for us died in the Opera fire, my precious."

Christine gave a little shudder. Her poor Angel! How could Raoul speak so coldly of him, and on their wedding day? "Go to the church, Raoul. Perhaps you should have a little talk with the priest about having more compassion in victory." Christine shut the door firmly. The maids looked at her as though she had gone off her head.

"What? What is it?" Her shy lady's maid stared at the floor. "Oh, miss, it's just that…"

"Speak up. Just tell me."

"No one ever dares to speak to Monsieur Raoul as you just did, miss." The bashful maid lowered her eyes again and bit her lip. Christine could tell that she regretted saying anything against her master. "It's all right, Estelle. It's true, Raoul is a little spoiled."

Christine took another look in the full-length mirror. A bride, a nobleman's prize of triumph, peered back at her. "After all, he's always gotten everything he's ever wanted."


	3. Chapter 3

Mariee Chapter 3

The Cathedral St. Chappelle is perhaps the loveliest church in Paris. Long, narrow stained-glass windows cascade down the entire height of the church, creating a waterfall of dazzling light. The central circular window, crowning the altar, showers the sacred space with dancing prisms of heavenly rainbows, with the intent of evoking the hope of our Creator's eternal glory.

Yet this morning, the church was strangely dull and somber. The fog had never burned off. As the wedding guests arrived to take their places in the ancient pews—aristocrats on the groom's side; opera singers, theater folk and 'those people' on the bride's side, the altar boys scrambled to light all the candles. This was a gloomy morning and the dark must be dispelled. Raoul and his father shared a brandy in the priest's vestment room and checked their gold pocket watches. Yes, the time was near.

In a tiny antechamber in the cathedral, Mme. Giry gave Meg's borrowed frock one more tug. The fit was too tight in the bosom and droopy in the hips, but it would have to do. When one's entire wardrobe has been consumed in a fire, one cannot be choosy about formal wear. Mme. Giry herself was august and formidable in her habitual black bombazine, although it did still retain a whiff of smoke.

"Meg, go ahead and take your place in the front pew. The Mass will begin in a moment and I wish to speak to Christine in private."

"But _Maman_!" the little ballerina protested. Meg thought this was the most romantic day she had ever witnessed. Christine looked like a princess! A princess who was remarkably pale, and who was swaying on her feet, but still…

"Do not forget to make your reverence in front of the altar. I will not have people believing I raised a heathen. Go on, now." Mme. Giry closed the door securely after her daughter. Christine allowed a soft chuckle to escape from her ashen lips.

Mme. Giry took Christine's slim hands into her own. The poor girl was shaking like an aspen sapling! "My dear, are you sure this is what you truly want?" the ballet mistress inquired.

Christine looked at the bouquet of rare orchids at her waist. "Oh Madame, what choice do I have?" A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye, but Christine made no move to wipe it away. "I have nowhere else to go."

"You are mistaken, my child. There is another way." Mme. Giry leaned close to the trembling girl. "A carriage stands ready to take you away to a place of safety, where you can stay as long as you like--"

Mme. Giry's voice was suddenly drowned out by the organ's clarion flourish. The familiar cadences began to peal forth. Christine grabbed Mme. Giry's arm. "It's starting! We have to—a carriage? I couldn't…"

The sexton opened the door to the antechamber and made a little bow.

Christine swallowed hard. "Madame, I think this is our cue." She took the bouquet into her hand and linked arms with her foster mother. As they began up the long, long aisle, all eyes were focused upon them.

"This is no opera scene, Christine. This is the sacrament of marriage!" Mme. Giry hissed over the relentless organ music.

Time seemed to stop for Christine. As she looked down the aisle to see Raoul and his father standing at the altar, it appeared to Christine that she was looking through the wrong end of a telescope. Everything was so far away, so small. Her life was marching into that diminution, that miniaturization. A life of formal parties and rigid standards. A lifetime of coddling a spoiled man, of trying for boy babies, and raising her children into lives as stultifying as the one she was choosing right now.

A life with no music, no singing. Ever.

Christine became aware that her feet had stopped moving. The bouquet of rare orchids fell to the cold stone floor. She looked to Mme. Giry, who motioned with her eyes to the side door through the Lady Chapel. Daylight was pouring through that open door…

With one motion, Christine ripped the priceless, intolerable de Chagny tiara from her head and thrust it into Mme. Giry's hands. She picked up her monstrously heavy skirt and ran, faster than she had ever run before, straight for that sliver of daylight.

The astonished congregation was too shocked to make a sound. All save one. The elderly Comte de Chagny emitted a loud "Ooof" as he caught the sagging body of his son. Raoul had fainted.

Christine banged through the Lady Chapel door and blinked in the grey morning light. She did not see the unconscious footmen flanking the door, nor the rags full of chloroform that had incapacitated them. All she saw was a black carriage, its door standing wide open, and four horses ready to take her away. She threw herself into the waiting compartment and shut the door behind her.

The carriage took off as though shot from a cannon. The driver lashed the horses fiercely. The fog was still thick and Christine was grateful for it. It would be impossible for anyone to follow her. The fact that she had no idea where she was going did not trouble her at all.


	4. Chapter 4

**_I want to thank my readers for giving me such nice reviews and encouragement. Your comments are truly taken to heart._**

Chapter 4

Christine leaned back in the carriage as they sped through the streets of Paris. When she dared to peer out of the window, all she could see was a blur of buildings, a sea of faces and fog, heavy fog everywhere. Christine toyed with the idea that perhaps this was just a fantasy, and that she was really still back in the Cathedral, promising herself to Raoul for all time before God and man. What a thought…

"_Arret!" _the driver roughly bellowed. The horses came to a halt, their iron-shod hooves clattering on the cobblestones. Christine slid off the narrow bench and onto the floor of the carriage. No, this was not a fantasy. Fantasies do not result in barked shins and broken fingernails.

Christine could recognize the Rue St. Denis from her vantage inside the carriage. People thronged here, eager to enter or leave the city through the majestic archway, one of the mighty gates of Paris. A customs officer approached the carriage for his appointed inspection. Christine shrank from the doorway and put the window shade down. She did not wish to be found!

As the customs officer put his hand on the door handle, he was distracted by the familiar jingle of coins in a sack. Christine saw the driver's hand lower the bag to the customs officer, who grabbed it with alacrity. The official stepped away from the door and gave a sharp rap to the carriage's side. And they were on their way—through the city's south gate, into the French countryside.

It was astonishing, the way the crowded environs of the city became tranquil farmland within a few minutes' ride. The air was fresher, sweeter somehow. A few more minutes, and the fog dissipated into pearly wisps that caressed the damp fields. The driver slowed the carriage to spare the horses. The gentle rocking motion lulled Christine into closing her eyes for just a moment…

They were stopped. Christine's eyes flew open. She pulled up the window shade to see a humble country inn before her. Where was she? Was this the safe place Mme. Giry had promised her? Christine opened the window and leaned her head out.

"Driver! Have we arrived?" Christine began to open the carriage's door, but a strong hand on the other side prevented her.

"My lady," the driver began. He had a peculiarly high, almost distorted voice. "One of the horses has thrown a shoe. He will be ready directly. Please, my lady, stay where you are."

Christine settled herself back in the carriage. There was something about that voice. She leaned out again. The driver was harnessing the lead horse, tending the animal with care. She could not make out his face, but he seemed—familiar.

"Driver! Please come here." The coachman neared, only to stand flush against the side of the carriage. Christine could not make out his face. "What is your wish, my lady?" Again, that odd, strangled sound.

"I-I'm thirsty. May I have a drink of water?" Christine sank back onto the narrow bench. She sounded like a little girl! A dipper full of cold, clean water from the inn's well was thrust through the open window. Christine took it and drank it down greedily. A black-gloved hand retrieved it from her.

"Do you need anything else, my lady?" Was it the inflection of his voice? Something…"No, that was all. Thank you for driving me, sir." Christine shook her head. It was probably nothing.

"Mademoiselle, I am your obedient servant." The driver clambered to his seat and took up the traces. The carriage moved forward again. The sun was now high in the sky. The road had dried out and they made good progress.

As the miles slipped away, Christine felt a wave of inexplicable joy sweep over her heart. For the first time in weeks, really, she had a sense of hope. Without realizing it, Christine began to hum a tune from Mozart's The Marriage of Figaro; Cherubino's entrance aria.

_Non so piu cosa son, cosa faccio, Or di foco, ora sono di ghiaccio _

"Breathe"

_Ogni donna cangiar di colore, _

"Open"

_Ogni donna mi fa palpitar. _

"Relax!"

_Ogni donna mi fa palpitar! Ogni donna mi fa palpitar! _

"Transition!"

Christine wasn't in the carriage any more. She was again in the Opera Populaire, singing with her beloved Angel of Music. His voice all around her, taking her through each phrase of the music, listening to her, supporting her. Creating a thing of beauty that belonged to both of them. Heedless, without shame or self-consciousness, Christine sang in time to the horses' hooves, to the turning of the carriage wheels.

The sound floated up to the coachman. He knew every beat, every semi-quaver of that aria. The driver could barely keep his eyes on the road, for they were flooded with tears.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The sun was well past its zenith by the time the carriage stopped again. Christine had seen an ancient pile of rocks in the distance, but as the carriage drew closer, she realized it was in fact a building from the medieval past. A worn cross set in the archway told her that she was on holy ground once again. Where was she?

Christine did not wait for the coachman to open the door for her. As she stepped from the cab, she was astonished to see a tiny Carmelite nun swiftly approach her. The nun took Christine's hands in warm greeting.

"Welcome, my child. We have been waiting for you." The driver suddenly signaled his team to pull away. Christine lost her chance to finally see his face in the cloud of dust that the carriage kicked up.

"Sister, how do you know me? Why have I been brought here?" Christine was again struck by the unreality of the situation. This day was turning out rather like a cheap romance novel…

"Come inside, Christine. All will be made clear to you." The nun led Christine through the vaulted passageways of the cloister. Their footsteps echoed in the cool convent air.

"My name is Sister Therese, Christine. We have a mutual acquaintance in Antoinette Giry, though of course, her maiden name was Renouille. I was in the ballet with Antoinette, yes, at the same Opera Populaire that used to be your home. What a pity about the fire." Christine had to hurry to keep up with the bustling prioress through the winding corridors. "Here, my dear. This room has been prepared for you."

Sister Therese took one of the keys from the belt at her habit's waist and opened a wooden door. The room was small but immaculate, with a clean window that overlooked the almond grove behind the convent. A narrow bed sported fresh linen sheets, a simple desk held a mirror, a hairbrush and a bowl of flowers. A wardrobe's door stood ajar, revealing three new dresses and other articles of clothing.

Christine was stunned. "Sister, why have you done all this for me? How do I deserve--" Christine was cut off by Sister Therese's finger on her mouth.

"Shush, now. This was done by one who knew you needed it. Here," she chortled as she drew a note from the folds of her habit, "this should explain everything to you."

Christine took the missive with trembling hands. As she opened it, she recognized the elegant, spidery handwriting, though she had never expected to see it again. Christine lurched for the chair and clasped the letter to her breast. Finally, she began to read:

_My only love,_

_If you are reading this, then you are not yet the wife of Raoul de Chagny. I beg you to think over the choices that are before you. If you look in the little desk, you will find something that gives you many more possibilities._

Christine opened the desk's drawer. A large vellum envelope waited with her name on it. She tore it open. It was money. So much money! Two-hundred-fifty thousand francs—an impossible sum! She looked back down at the letter.

_I wish you to know that I will always ensure the security of Mme. Giry and her daughter. You must never think that you must_ _compromise yourself for the benefit of those you love._

_Your talent and your sweet spirit must have wings to fly. Like a fool, I forgot that and tried to take away your self-determination. I know that I have much to ask your pardon for, and that I will never merit it. Yet I beg it of you anyway. Please be confident that I shall never impose upon your time again. _

_Perhaps one day, you will forgive me._

_Yours,_

_O.G._

Christine gently placed the letter on the bed. She knew that she should cry. Any girl would. Sister Therese pulled a linen handkerchief from her pocket and offered it to the young woman, still clad in the stiff wedding dress. But Christine did not accept it.

She threw back her head and laughed! Christine let out peals of laughter, rocking and bending as much as her corset would permit. At length, she took the handkerchief in order to wipe the tears of laughter that escaped from the corners of her eyes.

"Oh, please forgive me, Sister. I feel like I have been born again. This is the morning of my life." Christine stilled for a moment. "I must find him. Tell me where he is."

Sister Therese bit her lip. This was the most romantic situation she had ever seen! But she had made a promise to the masked man, and she would not be made a liar. Oh Lord, show her a way to reunite these young people!

"I gave my word, Christine. He asked me not to tell you."

"He was here?" Christine began to twist her fingers in that habitual way. "He's here now?" The girl looked so desperate that Sister Therese racked her brain to find a way to tell her without breaking her sacred pledge.

"Let me tell you about our convent," the prioress began. "The main cloister was built in the year of Our Lord 1172. We have seventy three sisters among us and thirteen postulants…" Christine just stared at the nun in disbelief. "Pay attention, child! We keep cattle and sheep, a lovely kitchen garden and a thriving almond grove, which has provided us with a fine income for almost one hundred years."

Sister Therese came close to the bewildered young woman, lowering her voice so that Christine was sure to take her meaning.

"There is a brook that runs through the almond grove. A thirsty man, or a thirsty team of horses, could find satisfaction there…" Well now, that was almost a broken promise. Sister Therese calculated that it would be worth the penance.

Christine flew to the little window. Yes, she could see the almond grove. The lowering sun over the brook. Four tired horses. And yes, in the distance, the tiny figure of a man.

A masked man.


	6. Chapter 6

Mariee Chapter 6

Erik was glad for the shade that the almond trees provided. The slanting sunlight on this April afternoon was surprisingly warm. His pale skin was not accustomed to the harsh rays and he would be reddened with sunburn tomorrow. Erik wondered where he would go from here. There were plenty of opera houses worth haunting in Italy. Perhaps there was a guild he would be required to join.

The brook's rushing waters danced and bubbled, creating a delightful, musical sound. He hung his jacket over a low branch and prepared to take his boots off. It would feel so good to wade in that cool stream…

A shadow fell across Erik's face. Christine! The flowing water had muffled her footsteps. Erik sprang to his feet, ready to flee, but stopped. She was here. He would not run from her, no matter how much she might despise him. He raised his face, such as it was, to look Christine in the eye.

"It appears, Mademoiselle Daae, that I have kidnapped you twice in one month."

Christine stood as still as the stone Madonna in the convent's courtyard. Tears welled in her eyes, and were reflected in his own. Then, slowly, Christine sank to the ground, overcome by shock, and relief, and a very heavy wedding gown.

"Angel, forgive me. For everything," were the first words from the weeping girl's mouth.

Erik had not expected to hear an apology.

"There is nothing for me to forgive. You are the one sinned against. I have wronged you so deeply that I can never atone enough for it." Erik longed to go to Christine, to hold her, to comfort her and dry her tears. But no, he must not. His task was finished. He had freed his love and he must allow her to choose a new life. Without him, of course.

"Raoul told me you were dead. That's why I said yes to him. I didn't know--" Christine raised her tear-streaked face to meet his gaze. She couldn't look at him enough; he was alive! He was her rescuer, her protector still.

Every nerve in Erik's body screamed at him to take the delicate girl in his arms. Instead, he took a step back. "Christine, you are a young woman bursting with life. You are made for life. All I could offer you was a miserable existence of darkness, clouded by a murderer's countenance."

"Why do you call yourself that?" Christine snapped, surprising herself with her reaction.

"The tenor. He did not deserve my cruelty." Eric dropped his eyes to the ground. The sight of the strangled singer dangled before him for a terrible moment.

"Oh, you don't know!" Christine looked up at Erik, and a tiny smile began to play about her lips.

"Know what?" Erik asked, puzzled.

"Piangi did not die! You frightened him so badly that he passed out cold. His neck never broke." Christine ruefully shook her head at the memory.

"Really? I thought surely…" Could this be true?

"He will live to pinch many more bottoms." Erik caught Christine's eye. They each gave a soft, knowing laugh. Piangi's predilections were notorious at the Opera.

Erik sobered. "But the fire must have taken many lives?"

Christine again shook her head. "No, Angel. The only good thing about the gendarmes' presence that night was their usefulness. They got everyone out. A few people suffered from the smoke, but no one died."

A shaft of sunlight took that moment to stream in through the trees, falling directly on Erik's face. Christine saw a weight slip from his broad shoulders in that instant. Erik had suffered greatly, believing that he had taken innocent life. He looked at Christine intently.

"You know that I never intended for Buquet to die, don't you? He slipped and became entangled in the flies." Christine put her hand to her mouth. "My sin is that I didn't try to save his life, Christine. So that is one death I truly own."

He had other deaths on his soul, but decided to confess them on another day.

"We have all done terrible things. I betrayed you like Judas, my angel." Christine's lip began to quiver again.

"No, Christine. I think you saved my life."

"How so?" Christine was now too confused to cry.

"The unmasking is the climax of _Don Juan Triumphant_. Aminta unmasks the Don and casts him away from her in scorn, correct?"

"Yes, we rehearsed it for weeks that way. It was supposed to be ironic."

"The police would have had a clear shot at me, had you not embraced me."

Christine pondered this for a moment. On that stage, high on the catwalk, she had been in a world of music and emotion. Nothing mattered, only the opera and her Angel.

"I think my heart knew what my mind could not, Angel. I couldn't bear the thought of anyone hurting you. And yet," Christine dropped her eyes to the rushing water, "that is what I did to you."

Erik understood then that Christine was truly consumed by the guilt she felt. Look at the poor thing! She was thinner than he had ever seen her, pale in the afternoon sun. Dark shadows were smudged below her eyes, her lovely eyes.

"If it will set your heart at rest, Christine, please be assured that I hold no grudge, no fault against you. You trusted me for so many years." Erik fought back the tears that were rising in his throat. He could do this. He would be a man. "I can only hope that you will some day be able to forgive the many wrongs I have done you."

"Freely and fully. They were wiped away the moment I saw you again." Christine and Erik, as one, expelled tremendous, heart-rending sighs. The past had been laid to rest.

They watched the horses graze for a while. The breeze picked up and showered a flurry of almond blossoms upon them, like snowflakes. Erik saw the flowers caught in Christine's luxuriant hair. He would like to sketch her that way…

Erik was amazed that he was so calm. Christine was with him. Quietly. Tranquilly. As though they were friends. This was an impossible thing.

Then, another impossible thing happened.

Christine patted the soft moss beside her. "Come and sit with me," she invited, extending her hand. Gingerly, Erik arranged himself on the brook's edge, careful to neither touch Christine or step on her gown.

"I think you should know that I'm keeping the money," Christine blurted. "This money has set me free. I am so grateful that I did not marry Raoul. I don't love him."

Erik's head began to reel. "But, why did you leave with him? Why did you choose him instead of me?"

"I tried to…" Christine began to pick at the seed pearls on her gown. "Angel, I thought you were going to kill him. You both were so angry, someone was surely going to die. I tried to tell you without words."

"Tell me what?"

"I kissed you twice and gave you my ring. Didn't that tell you anything?"

Erik took a long look at Christine. "You have changed. You know your mind better now."

Christine smiled at this. "I know practically nothing. I read music better than I read books. I read books better than I read people. Do you realize, I don't know your real name!"

Erik shook his head. How utterly symbolic of everything that he had done wrong! All the lies, the elaborate deception as the 'Angel of Music', the threats and manipulations, could be summarized in that pitiful statement: the woman he loved didn't even know his name.

"My name is Erik." Somehow, Christine's hand had crept into Erik's. He stroked it for a perfect, blissful moment, and then gave it back to her.

"Christine, you have been through too much. I cannot distort your thinking any longer. This is why I have brought you to the Carmelites. You may stay here as long as you wish." Erik rose to his feet with difficulty. If he didn't go now, he would never have the strength. "They will hide you from Raoul or anyone else. You will have the freedom to choose a new life, a life with hope. I do pray to your God that you choose a life of music."

Christine arose with a great effort. The gown was getting heavier by the minute. "Erik, you're not leaving, are you?" She clutched at his arm. He did not have the force of will to take it away.

"The horses must rest tonight. I will sleep in the stables and be gone at first light." Don't touch her face. Don't kiss that perfect, precious mouth, you fool. Let her go.

Christine bit her lip thoughtfully. "Let me be sure I understand you correctly. You wish for me to choose my own path?"

Erik nodded. "I only want what is truly in your heart," he murmured in her ear.

"Will you respect my choice?" Her eyes sought his out, seeking assurance.

"Always." Even if I never see you again, he thought.

"Will you accept my choice?"

"I must."

Christine looked at this man, so tall and straight, with the most fervent heart and profound gifts she had ever known. She looked at his mask; through his mask to the sad, misshapen features that had cursed his life; through the deformed face and into his very soul.

One more question hung in the air.

"Do you love me, Erik? Please, tell me truthfully." Christine forgot to breathe. Depending on the answer, she would never want to breathe again.

"With all my heart," Erik softly whispered. "For all my life."

Christine took her hand from Erik's arm. "Then I know what I must choose."

With a final burst of energy, Christine gathered her skirts and ran back to the convent.


	7. Chapter 7

Mariee Chapter 7

Vespers is the sixth canonical hour of the day. The prayers mark the end of the day's tasks and obligations. The prayers are peaceful, and are intended to turn the faithful to contemplation. The service may or may not be fulfilled with a Mass. Tonight, Father Genesius, a Franciscan father recently returned from missionary work in _Cote d'Ivoire_, would be celebrating his first Mass in France in twenty years.

Christine ran through the convent's dim hallways. She passed one sister, then another, always asking, "Have you seen Sister Therese?". But the sisters shook their heads. At last, Christine found a postulant scrubbing the convent's steps. Out of breath, her chest heaving, Christine spat out the words, "Sister…Therese…where?" The postulant raised her scrub brush and pointed toward the convent's chapel.

Sister Therese was assisting Father Genesius to prepare for the Mass. She laid a beautiful cloth of green and gold over the altar, and then draped it with swags of almond blossoms. "Hello, my child," Sister Therese smiled in greeting. "I wanted your first Mass here to be especially lovely."

"Sister, I know what I must do. But it has to be now!" Christine was still breathless, with exhaustion and audacity. "Calm down, child," the little nun admonished.

"I can't! And you have to help me. At once!" Christine couldn't believe that she was ordering the prioress, but there was so little time…

On the way from the chapel to Christine's room, the girl unburdened herself completely to Sister Therese. The entire saga of the Phantom of the Opera was encapsulated in five minutes as they hurried. The Mother Superior was giddy with the romance of it all.

"So you see, dear Sister, I have to do this right now." Sister Therese concurred, her heart in her throat. "Will you go to him and somehow get him to the chapel? That's all I'm asking of you." Christine waited, hardly daring to hope that her plan would be acceptable to the prioress.

"Of course, my dear girl." The sister turned to leave. "Oh, wait!" Christine exclaimed. "I can't do it looking like this. Can you open the back of this horrible dress, please? I'll just have to use one of the dresses in the wardrobe…"

Sister Therese began to undo the tiny buttons at the neck of the pearl-encrusted gown. She began to smile. "You know, Christine, I may have something better for you, if you don't mind it being from a long time ago."

Sister Therese was not accustomed to the sights and smells of the stable. She wrinkled her nose a little at the scents of horse and hay. Erik nodded quickly to her as he finished forking hay into the stalls for his horses. He does cut a fine figure, the little nun thought to herself. Thirty years ago, I would have had a great deal more to repent.

"Maestro Erik, are you busy?" Sister Therese nervously began.

"Not any more, sister. My horses will rest well, thanks to your hospitality." He drew himself up. What could the prioress want?

"I must ask your indulgence, Maestro. You are a maestro, aren't you?" Sister Therese took Erik's large hand into her small one and began tugging him toward the convent. "Well, we seem to have a problem with our little choir."

Erik longed to pull his hand away, but the little nun had him in a vise-grip. "A problem, Sister?"

"Yes, they never sound right. Can you listen to our Vesper service and tell me what is the matter? I would be so grateful." She continued to inexorably drag Erik toward the chapel; very much in the way a tiny tugboat pulls a mighty ship into the harbor.

"How can I refuse in the face of such insistence, Sister?" If he weren't in the sanctuary itself, he would have had a hard time not to laugh at the nun's determination.

Sister Therese stood Erik right at the altar. Father Genesius gave him a jovial smile and a jaunty wink. Strange, Erik thought to himself, and then put all his concentration into the performance of the convent's earnest choir.

Erik listened for a minute, then frowned. He motioned for Sister Therese to draw close.

"One of your altos is tone deaf. I suggest that she offers only silent devotions from now on." Sister Therese nodded sagely. "Is there anything else, my son?"

"The soprano on the end has been getting into the brandy. Now sister, please excuse me. I am not a religious man—Oh my God!"

The chapel door swung open. The late afternoon sun was butter yellow as it flooded the chapel. A slim figure was silhouetted in the archway. Erik's acutely sharp eyesight told him in a heartbeat who it was.

Christine was wearing a simple linen bridal gown; the very one Sister Therese wore when she took her vows as a Bride of Christ so long ago. She carried a sprig of almond blossoms in her hand. They trembled as she stood and gazed at the man she loved.

She put two fingers over her heart, then pointed to Erik." I choose you," she mouthed. And waited.

Time stopped for the second time this day. Only now, Christine felt as though everything was enlarging. Erik filled her eyes and music filled her heart. She saw a life of joy ahead of her, a blessed life with a man who accepted her and would surely die for her. She seemed to hear her children's laughter; children who would be adored and cherished as priceless gifts, the seal upon their love.

And always, always music for their souls.

Erik steadied himself on the altar. "This is her choice," he thought in wonder. "I am her choice."

Erik nodded and extended his hands to Christine. The bride picked up her skirt and began to run. Christine felt like she was floating, no, flying, as she ran down the aisle and into Erik's arms.


End file.
